Chapter Two

       “Elizabeth!” my mom called.

       “Yes?” I groaned, steps away from exiting the house.

       “Where are you going?” she asked, placing her manicured hands on her hips.

       “Running,” I replied simply.

       “Fine. Keep your phone on you at all times, and no talking to strangers,” she warned, flipping her blonde hair that I had somehow inherited over her shoulder.

       My mom and I pretty much looked exactly the same. We both had the same, sun-kissed skin tone, bright yellow hair, and crystal blue eyes. If it wasn’t for the age difference, and the major height difference, we could have almost passsed for twins. Almost. I was pretty tall, and she, well, she wasn’t. Our personalities on the other hand, weren’t even from the same planet. She was what I would call a “girly girl”, and I, well, I wasn’t.

       I had to hand it to her, though, when I was younger, and just learning how to play basketball and other various sports involving balls and nets, she stuck with me like any good parent, chasing after my rebounds, and encouraging me to do better. I do think it was hard for her, having a little girl who wanted to do anything but “normal” little girl things. While all the other three year olds were talking about princesses, fairytales, and Barbies, I was talking to the boys about superheroes and baseball players.

       Growing up without a father figure was never a struggle for me, but I think it was tough for my mom. The story of my dad wasn’t a very interesting one. It wasn’t like in one of those stupid, unrealistic teen fiction stories I never got around to reading where one of the parents died, and it added drama or suspense to the plot—no, this was my life.

       My parents were divorced. My dad had his own family, and we never talked. He wasn’t around when I was growing up, and left us when I was born. He knew I existed, but, the way I looked at it was that if he didn’t want to make the effort to try and have a relationship with me, I wasn’t going to try to do the same with him. So, that was my dad’s story.

       “Mom, I’m seventeen, I think I have pretty good judgment,” I said, rolling my eyes.

       “I know you do. Now, before you go, I have to ask— why the outfit?” So, now she didn’t approve of my choice of attire. Typical.

       “Because this was the only clean pair of clothes I had that wasn’t hidden in a box,” I said. Orange shorts and white T-shirt; what was so wrong with that?

       “Fine, but, please, take the shoes off, they’re so old and tattered!” she complained.

       “I’m keeping the Jordans,” I said firmly.

       “Alright! Go! I don’t want to view this fashion disaster any longer!” She shuddered. My mom had the mentality that she was some sort of an “expert” when it came to fashion. To be fair, she kind of was, but that didn’t mean I had to listen to her. Sure, I took advice from her occasionally, but only when I absolutely needed it.

       “Bye,” I said, quickly leaving the house before any more conversing could take place.

       My eyes opened up to the natural light, still not fully up yet. It was only about 8:00 AM, so that was understandable. Eight o’clock, in the morning, on a Sunday, and I was up, about to go “running.” Truthfully, I wasn’t really running; I was more exploring the neighborhood, and seeing where it took me, without bumping into anyone with whom I would have to potentially socialize.

       As I left my new driveway, I turned down a sidewalk, and began to slowly walk, taking in all the houses around me. It was a nice area. The majority of the houses were big, like ours, and seemed well kept. The grass yards were all a matching vibrant green color, and almost every house had the clichéd, white, picket fence attached somewhere on the property. It looked like a safe neighborhood, to say the least.

       My feet thumped against the warm concrete as I turned down another street. The road looked the same as the others. The houses were quiet, there were street lamps overhead, a few fire hydrants, and the occasional dog barking at me as I jogged past. On this street, however, the continuous row of homes stopped at a point. In the distance, I could make out the silhouette of a park.

       As I neared the park, I realized it was split up into three sections: a baseball field, a playground, and a BASKETBALL COURT! I saw the outlines of basketball hoops standing tall on either end of the court. I could practically taste the sweetness of the pavement.

       Then, I heard it—a banging noise that once you’ve heard, you can never forget. It was faint, but definitely there. I got closer, and, with each step, the sound grew. I reached the grass of the park, and walked straight towards the court, the thumping increasing. Passing the playground, I turned by the baseball field. Though I hadn’t walked the land before, my feet knew where they were going. Before long, I found myself standing on the edge of the basketball court, watching a boy dribble and practice his shooting.

       My eyes weren’t focused on the boy himself, but rather the object his hands were touching: a basketball. From the way he was dribbling, I could tell he wasn’t a novice to the sport. His eyes weren’t fixated on the ball, but the net. His arms reached up, and flung the ball straight into the white mesh of the basket. A feeble, but distinguishable, whooshing sound was made, as the ball had made it. My eyes kept on the sphere, even as it tumbled away from the court.

       “Like what’cha see?” a voice said.

       I jolted up, coming face to face with the boy who had been shooting. “The basketball? Yes,” I said nervously.

       “I was actually talking about me,” he said, his eyes scanning over my body.

       “Oh, no—I prefer the orange thing, no offense,” I said, quickly glimpsing him over.

       This first thing that caught my attention about his physical appearance were his eyes. They were a deep blue color one could probably get mystified by, and calming too. His teeth were straight, which was always a good trait. I couldn’t stand boys who had crooked teeth. He had short hair, but not too short, and very dark, countering his light eyes. A simple pair of gray sweats were draped on his legs, a white tank top clung to his chest, defining every toned muscle, and a pair of Jordans were on his feet. Four years ago, the boy and I could’ve easily been best friends.

       I then noticed that on both his ears he had small sparkling studs, about the size of blueberries, that were most likely real diamonds. About the time when my friends and I turned fourteen, most of them got earrings. I thought it was strange for guys to get them, but they assured me it was quite normal. Personally, I had never fully understood the appeal in having earrings. It was one more thing to think about, and was a nuisance when it came to playing sports. I didn’t have my ears pierced, and didn’t plan on getting them anytime soon, despite the many attempts that my mother had tried to get those two holes through my ears. On this kid, though, earrings worked.

       “You’re lying,” he said cockily.

       “Maybe I am,” I said, shaking my head, causing my ponytail to sway about.

       “I’m Dylan,” he smiled at me.

       “Elizabeth,” I said, holding out my hand for him to shake.

       He gave me an odd look, and took my hand. “So, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here, up this early?” he inquired casually.

       “Exploring, I guess,” I said, noticing in the distance behind him there was a worn down truck that I guessed belonged to him.

       “Oh, so you’re not just searching for hot guys talk to like me?”

       “Afraid not.”

       “That’s a shame. Are you new? I haven’t seen you around.”

       “Well, wouldn’t not seeing me around lead to the conclusion that I’m new?” I questioned logically.

       “So, you’re new?” 

       “Yeah,” I confirmed.

       “Well, welcome to this crappy town!” 

       “From the looks of it, this town is pretty nice, actually,” I said, not understanding his comment. From what I had seen so far, it was your normal, quiet, average, American neighborhood.

       “On the outside, sure. Once you get to know the people, though, you’ll feel differently, believe me,” he promised. “So, are you in high school?”

       “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

       “Currently a senior having only one year left ‘til nonstop partying in college! Can’t wait!” he said, pumping his fist in the air twice in reference to the word “partying.”

       “Oh? You’re a senior? So am I,” I said.

       “No kidding, babe? Well, hey, now I don’t feel weird about hitting on you!” he laughed.

       “I’m so, uh, glad,” I said flatly.

       “So, babe, you play basketball?” he asked.

       “My name’s Elizabeth, and no, no, I don’t,” I lied. He didn’t need to know my track record with that sport; hell, no one needed to know. Some things were best kept hidden, until required to be exposed.

       “Why the Jordans?” he asked, pointing to my shoes.

       “Why not?” I countered, not giving a real reason.

       “I have hunch there’s more to you then you’re leading on babe— I mean Elizabeth,” he smirked, making me wince. My name always sounded so formal. Who the hell besides my mom would name their kid something like “Elizabeth”? It reminded me of some old British lady sipping tea and talking with an accent to all her other high-society friends. I hated my name.

       “Call me Liz,” I insisted, changing my stance. I moved my foot back and forth in the light dirt below me, creating an indent in the ground that wasn’t there before.

       “Liz. Huh. I like that more; fits ya,” he said approvingly.

       “Right. I should probably get going,” I said, spinning around on the ball of my foot.

       “Wait!” Dylan said, placing a gentle hand on my forearm.

       “Hmmm?” I twirled back around.

       “See ya later, babe!” he said, winking at me. I rolled my eyes, and turned back around, starting to walk away. Once I was sure he couldn’t see my face, I let out a small grin. Dylan. That boy had no idea on whom he just made a first impression.

       I left the small park area, and reached the hard sidewalk once again, starting on route back to my house. As I walked, I heard the soft sound of a car engine humming somewhere behind me. I picked up my pace, and kept going. The engine was getting louder by the second, so I began to speed walk.

       “Yo!” someone said, startling me. I turned around to see Dylan, the boy I had left minutes before, sitting in his rusty mode of transportation, with his arm out of the rolled down window.

       “I thought I just left you?” I said.

       “Oh, trying to ditch me, were ya? Can’t get rid of me that easily, babe!” he laughed, his face illuminating with energy.

       “Wanna bet?” I asked, starting to walk again.

       “No, actually, I don’t. I don’t like betting,” he said, slowly inching his car up so we were at the same speed.

       “I find that hard to believe; someone like you, not liking betting? Not a chance,” I said. He was the type of guy who appeared to have too much pride and confidence to dislike betting.

       “Someone like me? No, babe, you’ve never met someone like me; I can guarantee that,” he assured me.

       “Oh, really?”

       “Yeah. Now, get in my car,” he demanded.

       “Ha. No,” I declined, not as politely as I could have.

       “Why not?”

       “Let’s see, I just met you, I don’t know you, and, generally, getting into a stranger’s car, is a bad idea,” I said, walking away.

       “But we just met, therefor, we’re not strangers anymore!” he declared.

       “Right. Why would I even want to get into your car?” I asked, as he kept up his unhurried speed.

       “So that I can really show you the neighborhood,” he smirked. I bit my bottom lip, contemplating whether or not Dylan was to be trusted, before deciding that he seemed harmless. I went past the front of the truck, and to the passenger’s side. Opening up the tarnished door, I hopped in. After closing the door, I pulled a seatbelt across my chest.

       “Well, are you going to ‘show me the neighborhood’ or what?” I asked, as he stared at me, his hands idly holding the steering wheel.

       “Okay then,” he said, “ready to see this hellhole?” He pressed on the gas, and off we were.